


Knew you were in there

by wrongandbad_sam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anorexia, Anorexia Nervosa, ED - Freeform, Eating Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrongandbad_sam/pseuds/wrongandbad_sam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has been possessed before, but this is by far the worst one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knew you were in there

Sure, he’s been possessed before. And yeah, it always sucks. But this time is so different he’s pretty sure he’ll either vomit or die within the next few days. Some demons get a kick out of making their vessel do stupid shit—like embarrass the hell out of the person, get them in trouble with the law, etc. Most are more interested in causing as much harm to the world as possible, killing at will, maiming, among other things.  
But this one is more interested in destroying things from the inside out, and Sam is all but falling apart. At first, the demon makes him think he’s in control, that he can get rid of it easily, but then it shuts him up so fast his head spins. And it heads for the nearest drive through.  
See, Sam’s been on a diet for the last, what, ten years? Since he was old enough to know what attractive people look like. He’s so strict, it’s salad or a granola bar and water. Sometimes, only on special occasions, he’ll drink a beer with his brother. Usually after they’ve killed something important. Some people might call it an obsession, or a disorder. But for Sam, it’s a diet. He could stop anytime—and he will, as soon as his body looks how he wants it to. Sleek lines and firm muscles. Then he’ll be able to start eating normally again. He’s slipped a few times, gotten so hungry he couldn’t see straight and grabbed anything and everything he could, and he remembers the bloating so vividly it still makes him cringe. But he always makes up for those binges with a few days of just water and coffee, sometimes an apple if his brother is looking at him suspiciously.  
But he’s so terrified of saturated fat, he’s never wavered in his determination to avoid fast food at all costs. This demon knows, it’s in his brain somehow, and it’s taking him to White Castle. And Sam is kicking and screaming but no one can tell because he isn’t Sam anymore. At least not the part that’s in control of his body. He can feel the drive-through lady judging him hard when he orders for double cheeseburgers, a coke, and a milkshake, can see it when he gets to the window alone, no one to share the burgers with, no one to share the shame. And the fear. So much sugar is sitting in between him and the passenger seat, the empty passenger seat. And his traitorous hand reaches for the soda, takes the first sip of pure sugar. Skin prickling, head itching, about to crawl out of his skin at the taste of what he’s convinced will make him obese. And then the whole coke is gone, and his stomach is already straining at the fullness, and the demon is chuckling wickedly, enjoying his discomfort the way you can’t help but laugh when people get hurt.  
And then his horrible fingers are unwrapping a burger, and his already greasy lips are closing around his first bite of beef in years, and his stomach churns but he swallows anyway because the demon wills it so, and his stomach is so unused to having grease in it that it sits like lead at the bottom. Sam doesn’t remember eating the rest of the burgers, or downing the shake. When he feels conscious again, he’s surrounded by garbage and his stomach feels like it might burst. How many calories did he just consume? He’s not used to counting the calories in things like this—he’s used to counting the five calories in coffee, the 25 per cup of lettuce, the 70 per apple. This… this is 300+ per burger… This is too much. Sam always likes to overestimate his intake so he’s not surprised when he looks at his body later. But he can’t hardly fathom the number that this would total to. 

This happens for three days. Dean is on a hunt, and then he stays the night with some girl from the bar, and Sam and his demon (two now, he thinks. The diet and the demon) are alone with too much food and too much emptiness. Sam hasn’t felt real hunger in years, usually just a hollow pang that reminds him he should probably drink some coffee or have a granola bar so he doesn’t pass out. But after that first huge meal, about four hours later, a crazy hungry emptiness bloomed in his belly. A hunger he doesn’t know what to do with but ignore. So he does. But the demon doesn’t, and that’s how he ends up eating an entire pepperoni pizza by himself (so much fat in the cheese, sodium and saturated fat in the pepperoni, carbs in the crust).  
When he wakes up, his stomach is making the kinds of sounds that he hears in old houses. He’s pretty sure he’s going to explode, everything shifting and uncomfortable and a horrible kind of fullness. 

The cycle continues, and then Dean comes back.

They’re on the road again, their millions of miles of home, and Dean stops at a diner when he inevitably gets hungry. Sam follows as usual, ready to fall into the routine of ordering plain iceberg lettuce because that’s all that these diners seem to have that isn’t too many calories. He forgot about the demon momentarily, and it rears to the front of his mind, right behind his eyes. And it orders the country fried steak with hashbrowns and a sweet tea.  
The look on Dean’s face just about makes him crumple. Surprise is the most obvious, and there are a few other emotions that Sam doesn’t want to make out, so he looks away. Disgust. Disappointment. 

Three similar meals, and Dean won’t stop smiling. Sam can’t stop squirming inside. 

Sam’s body is growing and swelling, and Sam is panicking. He goes up a whole belt hole in a week. Three weeks later, he has to get new jeans because his old ones split after straining against his new body for too long. Dean still hasn’t wiped that smug smile of his face, seems almost giddy with it, and Sam is close to snapping. 

It’s another week before the demon runs into trouble. Sam’s body unwittingly steps into a devil’s trap, and obviously cannot leave. Dean’s face (where Sam’s eyes are almost always focused) falls, twists, understands, breaks. He curses under his breath. Sam doesn’t remember anything else after that. 

He wakes on a motel bed, like always. But he’s fully himself. A month of being under the command of something else and Sam is himself again, in his too-soft body, all alone. All his progress gone, hard work destroyed. And Dean comes back into the room with an apple and a coffee, and smiles so relieved when he sees that Sam is awake. He ruffles Sam’s hair, hands him his coffee and apple, and sits down next to him.  
“Knew you were in there somewhere,” He says softly. Sam doesn’t say anything, just looks down and chugs his coffee. Too hot—throat burned. Good. Now he has an excuse to not eat besides being disgusting.  
Sam showers to scrub the last bit of the demon—and all the fat—from his body. When he comes out, Dean is sitting on the bed, elbows on knees, hands clasped, head bowed. 

“Sam,” He says, quiet like Sam’s gonna run away. Sam shifts on his feet, crossing his arms over his sweatshirt. Dean doesn’t say anything else. They leave a half an hour later, off to the next hunt. 

It’s 6 days before Dean brings anything up again. Six days since Sam has eaten anything but vegetable broth and lettuce. Sam’s stomach growls in the car, and Dean pulls over sharply.  
“Sam, are we seriously back to this?” Intense eyes. But when is Dean ever not intense? Sam shrugs. “I thought you were getting better, the last week. I thought things were gonna be normal again.” Sam flinches at the word normal, curls in on himself. 

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, unsure. Dean shakes his head, incredulous, pissed, not getting it. 

“What the hell is this, anyway? I’ve been waiting for it to get better, for you to gain some fucking weight, for you to tell me what the fuck this is. What you need. What do you need?” Dean demands, hands tight on the steering wheel even though they’re parked on the side of the road. 

“It’s nothing, Dean. Don’t worry about it.”

“Sam, you’ve been underweight for like seven years. How am I not supposed to worry about it?” And Dean’s eyes are frantically searching Sam’s face, looking for injury like they’ve just finished a hunt or been pummeled by Dad. And the expressions Dean gave off when Sam was actually eating finally click, and Sam feels sick with the understanding of it. 

It’s the look he gave Dean on September 18th, when he thought Dean was gone forever. When he thought Dean was dead, his soul to be tormented for eternity. The look he gave when Dean came back.

It’s hard, giving up his iceberg lettuce and his comfort. It’s hard to even eat grilled chicken and broccoli because it’s different. But Dean sets them up at a lake house deep in the woods of somewhere, and Dean cooks for him, and buys books about recovery from eating disorders. They up his intake, together. Dean eating the exact same things to assure Sam that they won’t make him gain weight. “Look at me, little brother. I’m the same size as I was last week eating the same stuff you are.” And slowly, the chicken isn’t so hard, He doesn’t feel like crying every time he smells something cooking. He doesn’t want to be sick when he feels full anymore. Dean distracts him with lots and lots of TV and board games and a bunch of other stupid shit that they both would’ve scoffed at in any other scenario. But somehow Dean gets that Sam’s head is entirely occupied by fear of gaining weight, of being unattractive. Dean gets that Sam needs a lot of distraction. They go for leisurely walks once Sam gets a little healthier, and that helps, too. The hardest part is probably being vulnerable. Sam feels like a little kid, with is big brother taking care of him like a babysitter—like the old days.

But when they’re back on the road, six months later, Sam orders a double cheeseburger and a Diet Coke (it’s a compromise between soda and water), and Dean looks more peaceful than he has in years. It’s not over of course, there are going to be days where Sam can’t stand to exist in his own body, but it’s better. Dean glances over at Sam as he takes the last bite of his burger.

“Knew you were in there somewhere.”


End file.
